Those Who Face Their Fears
by KoolJack1
Summary: A series of one shots where the team faces there fears and phobias. Rating for disturbing content.
1. Phobia: Cleisiophobia

**Cleisiophobia: Fear of being locked in an enclosed place.**

He could hear the team, his friends, right on the other side of the door. The dark was suffocating, the air thick with death. They knew he was in the house somewhere, and he trusted them enough to know they'd find him. _'What if they don't? What if they don't care enough to look?'_ His mind was playing tricks on him, and he felt himself gasp for breath. How long had he been in here? Hours? Days?

_Tied to a chair, he was helpless against the pacing man before him. His eyes stung with sweat and blood, and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. "How long until your team comes?" The man asked, turning his unfocused eyes on him._

_"How should I know? I've been with you," he didn't mean for his voice to sound as threatening as it did. As if on cue, he heard cars racing up the front of the house. Hyde heard them too, and he quickly untied him from the chair and gagged him. Kicking the chair out of the way, he pulled up a piece of the rug and revealed a trapped door he hadn't seen before. He heard himself pleading not to be put down there, he'd rather be shot then locked away; but without hesitation, he found himself pushed down into the small hole. His fingers scrapped at the underside of the door, and he felt the chair being replaced above._

Whimpering hoarsely, his voice long gone from screaming, his nails scrapped weakly at whatever he could reach. No light found it's way into his tiny prison, and his mind was fogging up from his irregular breathing patterns. He heard the team stomping around the house, screaming his name. They were there, right above him, and he couldn't get to them. They may never know he was down here, in his little hell. He felt himself dying down here, never to see light again. His blunt nails clawed at his skin when he was sure he felt something crawling on him. The feeling erupted from all over his body and he found his voice enough to scream again.

"Please, I'm down here!" He begged and pleaded to the people that couldn't hear him. He punched at the door over his head and struggled to breath. Collapsing back against the wall, he gasped for breath, finding it hard to determine if his eyes were opened or closed. He scratched at his skin hard enough to draw blood, slightly hoping that opening his skin would relieve some of the overwhelming fear and pressure that was building up in his veins.

He heard feet, right above his head, and he screamed with everything he had left in his lungs. His eyes slipped shut just as the door above his head opened, flooding his own personal hell with light. "Hotch, I found him!" Morgan screamed, climbing down and cuddling him to his chest. "Reid, look at me man, I got you," he reassured, passing his friend up to his awaiting team mates.

Reid's body was rigid as he coughed and sputtered, clawing at the hands that were holding him still. He didn't want to be touched, he didn't want to be immobilized. He wanted to run and stretch his legs, he wanted to feel free again. "Let go, let go! I can't breath!" Instantly, the pairs of hands freed him, and his eyes shot open. He saw light, and felt the warm sun pouring in through the window. Shaking he watched as Morgan emerged from under the floor, brushing the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

As he regained his senses, Reid realized that he had vomit all over his shirt, and that his pants were distinctly wet and warm. His face flushed hotly, and he silently struggled to his feet. Ashamed, he stumbled to the bathroom to clean himself up. "Reid, you need to go to the hospital. This guy had you for three days," Morgan said quietly, following him. He really did lose track of time.

"Morgan I need something to change into please," he pleaded, not looking at his friend.

"I grabbed your go bag, it's in the truck," he disappeared for a moment, returning in under a minute with the familiar bag Reid brought on every case with him. Morgan handed it over silently, shutting the door on his way out. Quickly stripping out of his soiled clothes, Reid finally felt the overwhelming anxiety break in his chest; and he sobbed quietly.


	2. Phobia: Contreltophobia

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews, I love the positive feedback. This was surprisingly fun to write, so I plan on keeping these coming! If anyone has any suggestions on what phobias a should write and who should have it, let me know in a review and I'll write it for you._

**Contreltophobia: Abnormal fear of Sexual Abuse.**

Morgan never had a problem saying words like 'rape' or 'molestation', but every time he did say it, he'd have a moment of emptiness that settled in his stomach. He'd long ago pushed those harmful memories out of his head, refusing to allow them to control his life. Truthfully, he knew in aspects, they did control his life; to some extent. He had a hard time with trust, especially when it came to the men on the team. He had a feeling Hotch had figured it out, but he knew the others didn't see Morgan as having any fears.

He knew Hotch saw how he winced whenever he was in a confined space with him, he knew Hotch did his best to give him space. Reid on the other hand, innocently oblivious, had a harder time understanding the concept of personal space. Morgan had a feeling Reid knew exactly how he felt, though Reid would never confirm having similar childhood experiences as he did. He knew Hotch wasn't going to do anything inappropriate, yet he had an impossible time dealing with one on one moments with him. Moments that seemed almost to personal to be professional.

Logically, he knew what he'd gone through as a child would never happen again. He knew he was around people he could trust, and that he was much more capable of dealing with anything that came his way. He just couldn't shake the feeling that every touch meant something more, that every sentence had deeper implications.

Hotch had told him he'd trust him with his life, but questioned if he'd do the same. Honestly, he knew he could trust Hotch, but he didn't. On the ride home after one of the most stressful cases of their career, Hotch confronted the issue that was always between them. "Morgan, I don't know exactly what happened to you when you were younger, but the way you act towards me is wrong." He started, his voice unnaturally gentle, which made Morgan uneasy.

"Look Hotch, it's not that I don't trust you, I just-"

Hotch cut him off, "I've looked the other way, because we are all entitled to a personal life and personal thoughts, but you can't act recklessly and endanger your life and ours." He paused, and Morgan saw him turn to face him out of the corner of his eye. "I want you to know, you can talk to me, if you ever feel like you need someone. Maybe talking will help you begin to move past the feelings you can't shake." He didn't reply to that, and he didn't pretend to play stupid. He knew Hotch knew, and he knew he'd keep it to himself. Something inside him knew that Hotch understood his feelings deeper then he'd ever admit to, and he tucked away his words to reflect on in private.


	3. Phobia: Taphephobia

**Taphephobia- Fear of being buried alive or of cemeteries.**

"Dig," and so he did. The pain in his foot was intense, the cold numbing his fingers to the point where he could barely grip the shovel. Shaking, he admitted he was too weak, tears rolling down his face. He only half wished that the team would come and save him, but did he really want them to come? They were already to late, he was already dead. Tobias spit profanities at him, calling him weak, pitiful. The shovel was ripped from his numb fingers, and Tobias took over the digging.

He couldn't bring himself to move, or to shut out the words the man before him was saying. Every word was right, and they cut him deep to the bone. Shivering, his final resting place was finally doubled in size in no time, and he was ashamed that he wasn't even able to dig his own grave with a shred of dignity left. He looked up at Tobias as he stood, and bowed his head; ready to accept the bullet that was soon to come. "Get in," the man hissed, and his eyes shot up.

"What?" he whimpered, looking down into the shallow hole in front of him.

"You heard me boy, you need time to think about what you've done." He felt bile rise in his throat and he rocked back and forth slightly, shaking his head in denial.

"Please, please just kill me. I know what I've done," he begged, fighting tears again. Strong hands gripped his hair and pulled him forward, and he landed face first in the dirt. He struggled, turning over so he was on his back. "No, please," he gasped, clawing at the air as a shovels worth of dirt landed on his face. Sputtering, he clenched his eyes closed and struggled to breathe.

"Accept what you've done and maybe God will take pity on you and end your life quickly," was the only response he got. More dirt covered his lower half, compressing his chest to the point where it couldn't expand enough for him to take a proper breath. He felt the dirt compact more above him, and he knew Tobias was packing it down. His legs and arms were stuck in place, and he attempted to turn his head. Dirt clogged his nose and mouth, and he swallowed instinctively, choking himself.

He whimpered, wiggling his fingers; holding on to that last memory of how it felt to move muscles. He wanted to die with that feeling, a feeling of being free, but instead he'd die with his last moments being spent in the ground before his heart stopped.

Reid shot up in bed, his hands rubbing at the invisible dirt on his face. He could breathe, he could see, he could move; and he slowly laid back down against the soft sheets. He'd shot Tobias, his team had came to his rescue before things had gotten that far. He shut his eyes again, even though he knew he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. They had saved him from an early grave, and he was still alive. Then came the after thought that he always had, is that really what he wanted?


	4. Phobia: Coulrophobia

**Coulrophobia- Fear of clowns.**

Ever since she was a child, she couldn't handle the people in the crazy outfits and weird makeup. She was well aware that she had taken to a certain dressing style that could resemble that of a clown, but that was just her way of brightening the world in the only way she could; at least her little world. When she was five, her parents took her to the circus. She loved the cotton candy, the noises, the smells, the animals, everything; until she saw the small crowd of men dressed in neon colored stripes and layers of blue and green makeup. At first sight, she could just stare, paralyzed with the most intense fear she'd ever felt at the young age of five.

Her parents tired to convince her to go over and get a balloon animal from one of the unnaturally tall freakishly dressed men, but as her father tugged her along, the room narrowed slightly. They left early that day, and she didn't get a balloon animal; but she did learn something that day that most five year olds don't realize so early in life.

She didn't encounter another clown until she was twelve, and she had almost forgotten about her run in when she was younger. She was at her younger cousins ninth birthday party. Being the oldest, she felt superior to all the younger children around her. Refusing to take part in any of the games, she perched herself on a lawn chair and sipped some soda.

She felt like an adult, actually, for the first time in her life. Until the gate opened and in walked her own nightmare. The clown talked in a funny voice and honked a small horn; and every child dropped what they were doing to surround him. The day from when she was younger rushed back into her mind, and she remembered the overwhelming fear strangle her. She didn't even recognize her own voice as she screamed louder then she ever had in her life.

Not only did every set of eyes in the backyard turn to her in alarm, but after they all figured out what had happened; every kid younger then her made her their newest inside joke. The older kid was afraid of the clown, while the little kids thought he was cool. Her cousins never let her live it down, and even to this day someone would bring it up at almost every family get together. She laughed it off now, pretending it was just a childhood fear; but sometimes the face of the clowns from her childhood still haunted her dreams.

"And that's whats up with me and clowns," she concluded. Morgan leaned on her desk, sipping his coffee.

"Well, Prentiss said fear of clowns is a real phobia," Morgan said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to worry anymore, mama; no creepy, badly dressed clown is going to come near you Garcia." That's what she loved about Morgan, he knew exactly what to say no matter what the case.

"What's your biggest fear, Morgan?" She asked innocently, and Morgan was silent for a moment. No one really knew what his deepest demon was, even though he was surrounded by profilers every day of his life. He had a feeling Hotch knew, but that was because he had the hardest time controlling his feelings around him. He didn't rule out that the others knew, but we just respecting his privacy by not saying anything.

"Losing someone I love, like you," he lied smoothly, feeling guilty for not being honest. Garcia giggled and he placed a kiss on her forehead, then strolled out of the room. She sat facing her computer screen for a moment, the smile falling from her face. She wished Morgan would be honest with her, because she knew something was eating at him deeper in his soul. She also wished that knowing Morgan would always look after her would be enough to expel the dreams of of balloon making creepy men that haunted her dreams.


	5. Phobia: Pnigophobia

_A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, I'm really enjoying writing this, probably more then I've liked writing any fanfiction before. Please continue to review! I'd like to hear feedback on this. And if anyone has a phobia request they'd like me to write, I'll do it and dedicate it to you!_

_harrietamidala1691_: _You are correct, that's what happened in the show, but I didn't really like how they did that; so I wanted to change it a little bit._

_Here's the next installment, R&R please!  
_

**Pnigophobia- Fear of choking of being smothered.**

Not many people can say they have been at it as long as he has, and mainly he was proud of that. Deeper down, he wasn't in the slightest. He'd saved so many people, and raised the B.A.U. to save so many more. Regardless**, **the lives they weren't able to save seemed to eliminate the success they have had as a team. Back in the day, during one of there first cases, they had traveled half way across the country to California at the request of the local police. All signs pointed to a serial killer and rapist on the lose along the shorelines. Him and the original few were still young and eager to do their job. Of course, the newest unit was on a tight leash since no one seemed to believe that profiling was an accurate way to catch killers. Back then, the job was more about proving the science of profiling then catching the killers, and his determination had led to what the B.A.U. was today.

That case in California changed why he did the job though, because he realized that it wasn't about the profiling or the chase, it was about saving lives and doing their best to ease the minds of the families left behind. Until that case, he'd never been on the receiving end of anything he'd seen in the crime scene photos. He was blissfully unaware of the terror that was instilled right before the death of each of those innocent people captured in the pictures.

He was cocky and confident, and he didn't take his time. He didn't have to, he was invincible. They located the Unsub with ease, only two days needed to construct a strong and accurate profile. He headed over, alone, to the last known address; not bothering to wait for backup. He kicked in the door with ease, his adrenaline pumping through his veins. That was one of his favorite feelings, the rush he got when he was kicking down the door and going in strong.

The house was dark, and he kept his flashlight trained straight ahead at all times. The quiet was deafening, and he identified himself as F.B.I., not expecting an answer. He cleared all the rooms and was just about to radio in that Trent wasn't home when he found himself on the floor. He was trained in hand to hand combat, but he never had to actually use it when he was alone. On his back, he was at the disadvantage as Trent hit him in the face repeatedly with the object in hand. He wondered why a belt would be his choice of weapon as he struggled to get the upper hand. He wasn't afraid of the pain that came from the beating, and he knew that backup was already on the way. He could take another few minutes of this.

That was, until the belt found it's way around his neck. The air rushed out of his lungs before the belt was even tight enough to keep him from breathing. He never thought he'd forget his training, and the first rule was to never panic; but that's exactly what he did. The second rule was to never take your focus off you attacker, and he did that too. His hands went from fighting against the man above him, to the belt around his neck. Pulled to tight for him to even get his fingers around the rough leather, his heart rate tripled to the point where he was sure his chest was going to burst.

Thankfully, it was over in seconds; backup arriving just before the Unsub had the chance to pull the belt even tighter. Gideon had the man off of him and the belt loosened in seconds, but that feeling stuck with him. Even now, many, many years later, he could still feel and see the bruises on his neck when the lighting was just right. He'd never admit to this, but every time the crime involved strangulation, he'd have a hard time looking at the marks left behind. He even had a hard time talking about it without feeling like his throat was going to close up.

"Why are you taking this so personally, Rossi?" The team had asked, and he shrugged it off like it was nothing.

"She's me when I was just starting out, I told her not to act so quickly and to check herself," he said, frustrated that she hadn't listened. So he'd never admit to why the top button on his shirt was never buttoned, or why his tie was never as tight as it could be, but he'd always do his best to assure that others never had to face those intense fears that they didn't know they had.


	6. Phobia: Cynophobia

**Cynophobia- fear of dogs.**

She'd grown up with pets of all kinds, dogs, cats, fish, mice, snakes; but she'd always had a thing when it came to dogs. When they'd bark at her on the street or sit with her on the couch, something in her stomach turned uncomfortably. She'd never even been bitten by a dog, and her dogs at home were loyal companions, but something about the way they looked at her made her squirm. She loved animals, dogs included, as long as they kept a safe distance.

She'd never been able to put a finger on the exact feeling she got around dogs, until the Tobias case. When Reid went around back, deciding to split up, she knew it was a bad idea. Her field training had told her that the number one rule was to never separate; yet she found herself alone. Slowly opening the door to the barn, she felt her heart rate pick up when Reid was no where to be found. "Reid," she whispered into the darkness, half expecting to see Tobias jump out of the darkness. Instead, she was greeted with silence.

Unsure of how to proceed, she cursed Reid's brilliant idea to leave her alone, and she wished more then anything that Morgan and Hotch would somehow appear and have her back. She stood in the middle of the barn, trying to look everywhere at once. That's when she heard it, a quiet growl from the darkness. Spinning around, she found herself face to face with her biggest fear. The dogs seemed rabid, crazy, and she really didn't want to hurt them. They left her no choice though, when they lunged at her. She managed to kill two before the third one took a bite out of her arm, then she finished off the last one. Pushing the dead weight off of her, she stumbled to her feat.

That's when she saw it, the body; or what was left of it at least. Mangled and destroyed, she never stood a chance against the dogs. Unable to look away, she stared at the bloody mess; finally snapping out of it when the barn door burst open again. "FBI, don't move!" She screamed, pointing her gun blindly at the figures coming in.

She recognized the voices telling her to calm down, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that they were really here. She was finally not alone, and she had never been more happy to see Morgan and Prentiss. Prentiss escorted her carefully out to the ambulance where her are was bandaged. Everyone's focus wasn't on her though, because Reid was no where to be found. She needed to put a lid on her fear for now and find her best friend, because he needed her right now.

She found the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, hoping it would help her control herself. That was the first time she hallucinated a dog behind her, and she had nearly shot Prentiss because of it. She knew Prentiss knew then, and yet she remained the ever loyal friend, "JJ, relax." Logically, she knew that dogs weren't following her, but she just couldn't come to believe that they weren't out to get her.

It had been years since that day, when she finally identified her biggest fear and was forced to confront it all at once, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. Reid was home safely, and he'd overcome his troubles that had steamed from that day, but she never seemed to be able to. She still saw the dogs behind her when she looked in the mirror, and her dreams were still full of their angry growls. She learned to accept it though, and ever since she met Will, it was much easier to deal with.


	7. Phobia: Kakorrhaphiophobia

**Kakorrhaphiophobia- Fear of failure or defeat.**

He loved his job, deeply. He really believed that it was his calling in life, and the only thing he'd ever been good at. Since he'd been younger, his father had criticized everything he did. Starting from Elementary School when he'd bring home drawings from the first grade. The pictures were never just right, the colors never in perfect contrast, which he didn't understand when he was that young. He'd grown up thinking that anything below perfection was simply unacceptable, which left him in a vicious cycle of frustration since nothing ever seemed to be _perfection._ Deep down, he hated the word. He hated the standards that people set for themselves and society. Those standards led the people who he worked so hard to catch to do what they do. Those same standards had also pushed him his entire life, and made him unhappy for more then half of it.

He should have known that it wasn't normal to expect a first grader to always color in the lines, he should have known getting a perfect grade on every test wasn't possible, he should have known it wasn't normal to be afraid of not exceeding the average. Instead, he'd listened closely to his fathers words. From the first time he brought home a bad grade on a spelling test and his father screamed at him for an hour about how anything less then a 100 was simply unacceptable, he knew he never wanted to hear him scream like that again. He stayed up all night the evening before the next spelling test, going over the words more times then he could count. He left the third grade with a 100 that day, and his dad took him out for ice cream.

His dad insisted he not only join the sports team, but become the captain. He couldn't play an instrument unless he was first chair. Whenever perfection was just not met, the screaming started again. Over the years, the screaming turned to beatings, and he knew he had to work harder. He went days without sleep before a test, often too tired to even fill out the answer sheet.

Going out Friday or Saturday nights was pointless, there was work to be done. Secretly, he took an interest in fiction books, and he read them at night when he was supposed to be studying. In the seventh grade, he was tired of how things were. He couldn't hang out with any of his friends because he had work to do. His dad told him his 'friends' wouldn't be there in a few years when he needed to find a real job, so they weren't worth his time now.

On his fifteenth birthday, his dad made him get a job. He had to work for his yearly promotion and do his best to get it early, all while keeping straight A's, being captain of the soccer and baseball team, and staying first chair of the trumpets. The day he came home with an 84, he stared at it. He memorized how the red ink looked over his answers, and found himself hating the two digit number compared to the three digits he was used to. "No one's perfect," his one and only real friend said when he saw him later that day.

"I have to be," was his response. His friend and him never hung out outside of school, and he never met his father, but the kid knew something was off. He nodded and patted him on the shoulder.

"I realized it's not possible and stopped trying," he said, and he turned and walked away. He kept his eyes on the paper through the whole day, locking himself in his room with it. He hit things, broke things, and shredded the paper; not noticing his mother in the doorway. She stared at him for a moment before quietly shutting the door. He remembered how he broke down, unable to support himself. He sobbed, knowing that a seventeen year old boy shouldn't cry. His father knew it too, because when opened the door and found him like that, he knew he'd never show another emotion again.

_"Your disgusting. I expect so little from you, and you can't even handle that without crying," his father spat, hands landing heavily on his back. He laid there, hoping his father could beat the sadness out of him, emptiness filling him when he realized his father was just beating more holes into his soul._

The day he died, he stood over his casket without shedding a tear. He pretended to be sad, but that was hard when it was the best day of his life. He thought it was over, that he'd finally be free to live a normal life. Even with the pressure off, he couldn't stop. He didn't go to his graduation because he wasn't Valedictorian and he didn't go to prom, even though Haley, the girlfriend he'd been keeping a secret for so long begged him. Determination fueled his thoughts, and he proposed to her at a young age, afraid that she'd leave him if he didn't.

He joined the academy soon after, rising through the ranks quickly thanks to his hard work. The FBI was perfect for him, he needed a job where failure wasn't an option. So when Rossi was standing there next to him with his hand on his shoulder, he couldn't understand how he managed to fail when _failure wasn't an option._

"We interviewed so many people, Aaron. It could have been any of us," Rossi assured, patting his shoulder gently. _'No,' _he wanted to say,_ 'It wasn't any of us though, it was __**me**__.'_ Another victims life was ruined because of his failure, and that was just another thing he'd have to live with on his mind. Keeping a steal face to preserve what was left of his dignity, he turned and headed for the car. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight, not like he deserved it anyway. It was times like these that he wished his father was still alive, because he needed someone to remind him that failure was never an option.


	8. Phobia: Nyctophobia

_A/N: Warning, this installment to the phobia drabbles contains slash; if you don't like it, don't read._

**Nyctophobia: Extreme fear of the darkness.**

Whimpering, he tried to remain as still as possible. Doing his best to remain level headed as the older man tied the blindfold in place, he realized he wasn't doing a very good job of controlling his emotions. His breaths were coming out in harsh and fast gasps. "Please take it off," he begged quietly, wishing he'd never agreed to this. Big hands gently took his hands as he struggled to untie the blindfold.

"Deep breaths, everything is okay," Hotch whispered soothingly, using his cuffs to secure his hands behind his back. When the metal clicked his hands behind his back, his heart pumped even harder in his chest. He struggled to hear what was going on around him, and he could feel Hotch's eyes on him.

The hand on his chest made him flinch back, "Hotch, I don't want to do this anymore." He knew how pathetic he sounded, but he was willing to beg on his knees if Hotch would just end this.

"What is it your afraid of? Tell me what your feeling right now, what your thinking," Hotch's voice was right next to his ear, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge.

"I feel like something is on my chest, too heavy for me to breathe. I know your there, but not knowing where you are or what your doing is terrifying," he answered in a panicky whisper. When Hotch's hand started to slide down his chest, he squirmed helplessly. "Please, _please_," he resorted back to begging, "Just untie me and take off the blindfold."

Hotch's hand stilled, then moved back up to cup his face, "What happens when your in the dark, Spencer?" Reid knew exactly what he was asking him to share, and he didn't know where to start.

"My dad would come into my room in the dark, and when I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn't there; I couldn't see what he was doing, but it made me feel it even more distinctly. When my mom would have an episode, she'd say I was sent by the government to extract information; and she'd lock me away in a closet until she checked the house for bugs. When she was done, she'd come back, she'd insist that I called them, and she'd throw things at the door and call me the devil," he realized he hadn't taken a breath, and he inhaled sharply before continuing, "One time the kids at school locked me in a janitors closet, and I wet myself. They saw when they finally let me out, and I could never live it down." His voice finally broke, and he bowed his head. Tears dampened the material over his eyes, and he did his best to suppress his sobs. "They laughed, they all laughed, everyone laughed."

Hotch's other hand came up to cup the other side of his narrow face, and Reid could feel his breath on his lips. "I'm not laughing, Spencer. Those are terrible memories to have associated with the dark, and your fear is understandable," he quietly reassured, his fingers brushing through Reid's sweaty hair. "There's no one here Reid, just you and I. Nothing is going to hurt you, no one is going to laugh at you." Hotch's gentle and soothing voice floated around him and filled the room.

"Darkness is the absent of light," he blurted out randomly, feeling the need to explain himself further.

"So your not afraid of the dark, your afraid of the absent of light," Hotch concluded, never taking his hands from Reid's body.

"Something like that," Reid said quietly. "Sometimes, after a bad case or just a day that fills my mind with memories, I'm afraid to shut my eyes." Unsure of why he couldn't stop himself from telling Hotch his deepest demons, the words just kept coming, "As soon as I close my eyes, I can feel his hands on me, hear my mother's screams, hear their laughter," he choked on his words, and Hotch pressed his chest up against his. "I cried, Hotch. I begged, I screamed; and no one listened."

"Sh, Spencer. I'm not going to do anything you don't want to do, I'm not going to yell or laugh at you," he promised, placing a gentle kiss right above the blindfold. "You can be afraid, Reid. I wont leave you, I'll protect you."

Hotch stood up slowly, and Reid shrank back against the bed behind him. The feeling of someone looming over him, even Hotch, was suffocating. If Hotch felt him jump when he touched his arm, he pretended he didn't. He wasn't here to fix Spencer's fear of the dark, he simply wanted to help him find a way to overcome the panic he felt when the dark surrounded him. "Here, stand up," he said, guiding Spencer to his feet.

Careful not to make any sudden movements, he gently pushed Reid to lay back on the bed. Reid struggled to sit up for a moment, but Hotch joined him on the bed; making sure Reid's hands weren't getting crushed on the bed by turning Reid on his side. He pressed himself against Reid's back, enveloping him in his arms. He felt the tremors of terror shoot down Reid's spine, and he placed a gentle kiss to Reid's ear. "I'm right here, everything is okay," he assured. "Next time you can't shut your eyes, I want you to think about me; my hands on you."

He emphasized his point by carefully rubbing his fingers against Reid's nipples through his shirt. The smaller body squirmed before him and he let his breath wash over the back of Reid's head. "Do you want me take it off, Spencer? We can stop, you did really good." Reid didn't answer, but his unsteady breathing was enough to answer his question. Hotch grabbed the keys to the cuffs off the nightstand and unlocked them; and Reid instantly undid the knot in the blindfold. Spencer turned over to face Hotch, and Aaron allowed him to bury himself in his chest. Relieved to see Hotch's warm dark eyes again, he did his best to crawl into his skin. The faint glow from the nightlight, that Hotch had plugged in next to the bed just for him, cast a glow on the room that lit everything up just enough for him to see. A shadow danced across the wall as a car passed outside, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and turned his face.

Hotch didn't speak, but he gently combed his fingers through Reid's hair; never loosening his grip. He appreciated everything Hotch did for him, he really did, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that nothing could make his fear of the dark go away.


	9. Phobia: Dishabiliophobia

_a/n: Warning, this installment contains slash, if you don't like it, don't read it._

**Dishabiliophobia- Fear of undressing in front of someone.**

Hotch watched as Reid trembled before him, his hands twitching and fingering the top button of his shirt. "I can't do this, not with you watching," Reid admitted quietly, his hands falling from the button to wrap tightly around his midsection. Hotch got up off the edge of the bed and took a few steps forward, stopping just within arms reach. Reid's nervous eyes flickered over to the lamp, wishing the light bulb would just explode and cover the room in darkness. Hotch's fingers slowly undid the top button, his fingers brushing against Reid's collarbone.

"Why, Reid?" he questioned, his fingers gliding down to Reid's chest. He noted that Reid was gasping, nearly hyperventilating. "You need to calm down," he cautioned, but Reid wasn't hearing him.

"The goal post," he gasped, allowing Hotch to ease him down on the edge of the bed. "They watched, they _laughed_," it started clicking together for Hotch, and his heart sank. He waited for a few moments, rubbing Spencer's sweaty back gently while he caught his breath.

"They touched you, didn't they?" He asked quietly, feeling every muscle in Reid's body tighten. He didn't expect Reid to say anything, so he continued, "I don't need to tell you what a trauma like this does to a twelve year old prepubescent boy." Spencer ripped his hand away from Hotch's as if it burned him, and Hotch let him move to the seat by the window. "It wasn't your fault, Spencer. You were a child," he soothed, not flinching when Reid quickly crossed the room and stood in front of him.

"You don't know anything, Hotch," Reid's voice was menacing; Hotch never thought Reid was capable of that level of anger.

"I do, Reid. I know what they did to you. Nothing like that will ever happen again, Reid. No one will ever touch you when you don't want it," Hotch swallowed the pain in his chest, watching as a single tear dripped from Reid's eye.

"They made fun of how little I was," Spencer said, his leg jumping up and down, "They said it was disgusting how I didn't have to shave." His voice was shaking, and suddenly it felt like there wasn't enough air to breathe. "They flicked me..." his hands balled into angry fists and he shook his head. "They tied me to the goal post and when they got bored, they left me there."

The silence fell over the room again, and Hotch watched closely and Reid stood up again. Eyes focused on the wall behind his head, Reid's fingers slowly reached for the next button of his shirt. With trembling fingers, he managed to get three more undone before a sob broke from his throat. Hotch's heart ached as a broken sound from deep in Reid's chest bubbled to the surface.

Unable to watch anymore, Hotch got off the bed and quickly refastened the buttons. "You did good Reid, really good," Hotch said, pressing a kiss to his temple as he guided him back to the bed. They laid down, and Hotch leaned over to turn off the light. The room fell into darkness and Reid clutched his hand as Hotch tucked him under his arm.

They spent rest of night quietly kissing and touching, Hotch doing his best to show Reid that no one was ever going to do anything like that again, and that he was truly beautiful. Reid undid each button with ease, knowing that the darkness would cover his every movement. Logically, he knew his body had obviously matured since that day, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that in the light, Hotch would see a tiny twelve year old boy.


	10. Phobia: Merinthophobia

_a/n: These are obviously much easier to write when it comes to Reid, since he's my favorite character and the one that I can see having most of these phobias, but my goal was to represent at least one for each member of the team. I need some more suggestions though, because I only have about 5 or 6 more phobias that I picked out off a list that I could apply to one of the characters. So think of a new one and help me out!_

**Merinthophobia- Fear of being bound or tied up.**

Her mother was never much of a parent, even when she was too young to tend to herself. Overseas, she experienced some of the most interesting things. Mainly, she was blessed for everything that she'd learned over there, because she knew that the experiences that she had and the sights that she saw weren't things normal people got to do. Rome was beautiful, really. It was so much different then America, and sometimes she even missed her old life.

Often, she'd reflect on her life growing up. Matthew was her one and only true friend, he'd stuck by her side through the hardest times in her life. Here she was, so many years later, standing in the cemetery while they lowered her only real friend into the ground. When she'd managed to get pregnant, Matthew had taken care of everything. Without him, she was pretty sure she wouldn't be here right now. Of course, there were other times that Matthew had come through for her. When she was thirteen, her mother had to go undercover on a mission she wasn't aloud to know anything about. Against her will, she was sent to live with close friends of her mother that she'd met once before.

They were nice people, really. They had four children of there own, one girl and three boys. All four of them were older then her; the girl was sixteen, while two of the boys were twins and they were nineteen, and the oldest was twenty-one. None of them had welcomed her at first, and she spent most of her time on the phone with Matthew who called her every day. She missed him, and she would've killed to be home kicking the ball around in his yard. He promised he'd come see her soon, and every night she fell asleep hoping that 'soon' meant tomorrow.

One night after they had eaten dinner, she retired to her room early. The kids that lived there didn't include her in the things she did, and after a month she gave up trying. When someone knocked at her door, she was surprised. Usually, the only people who ever came in were the parents; and they never knocked. She opened the door a cracked and peeked out, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion when she saw the oldest son standing on the other side.

_"Emily," he said quietly, and it was the first words she could remember him speaking to her. "Can I come in?" She let him in, eager to talk to him. She wanted nothing more then to fit in with them, to become apart of a family that she never had. He shut the door before taking a seat on her bed, staring at her intensely. She sat next to him, waiting for him to speak again. He didn't speak again, though, but his hand did find it's way to her upper thigh. Confused, she pushed his hand off, standing to move towards the door._

_"What are you doing?" She asked, hating how her voice shook. The man that she'd thought was a gentle person grabbed her then, pushing her back down on the bed. Still without speaking, he collected two of her scarves and belts, using them as a gag and restraints. She remembered being to stunned to scream, even when he took advantage of her._

_"What am I doing?" He mocked when he was done. "I'm trying to assure that you leave my family alone. You don't belong here, you're putting us in danger." She stayed still, stunned. How could someone so young be a danger to this family. More tears stung her eyes, and he loosened one of the hand restraints, leaving her to do the rest. "So consider this your warning, leave now and keep your mouth shut about this."_

She'd done just that. She called Matthew hysterical, and he'd dropped whatever he was doing to go get her. She escaped through her window, begging him to drive as soon as she had her door closed. He took her hand and drove while she cried, sobbing out what had happened. She remembered the look on his face, anger that intense was so rare for Matthew that it almost scared her. He took her back to his house that night, and hid her in his room. He let her sleep in his bed while he took the floor, and she was almost able to forget what had happened to her. She never did forget though, because it haunted her dreams every night. She'd always wake up and remember that she had her own personal protector, and she almost wasn't afraid anymore. She'd she the mutilated bodies in the photos, most of which had been tied up; and it would send shivers down her spine. Matthew was the one person that kept her sane when she saw all the horrors, because knowing people like him were in the world may just save another innocent person from ending up in one of the pictures. Now that he was gone, who could she think of to remind herself that there was still some good in the world.

She never did tell her mother, or anyone for that matter. She just returned home when her mother finally came back. She never really asked either, because it wasn't surprising that she'd ended up at Matthew's house. She never saw her mother's friends again, or their oldest son. After the casket made it's slow trip into the ground, she glanced around her at the by standers. She knew a few of them, and she saw Matthew's parents huddled together near a tree. They made eye contact for a moment, and she wasn't sure if she hated them or wanted to tell them how sorry she was for their loss like the others were. She couldn't shake the feeling that they _weren't_ sorry about their loss though, and she turned away in disgust.

The world had lost one of the most beautiful people in it, but no one knew better then she did that evil always beat the good.


	11. Phobia: Acrophobia

**Acrophobia: Fear of heights.**

His head feels so light, he can't imagine that any blood is finding it's way to his head. Air rushes in bursting gasps from him chest, and he hears himself whimpering with each breath. His fingers claw at the railing, his eyes fixated on the ground 50 floors down. _"Reid, come here. It's okay, man."_ He hears Morgan's voice as if he is underwater, and his brain can't make himself move back. His jaw is so tightly clenched that he doesn't know how to open his mouth to even reply.

A hand gently touches him then, and the reaction is sudden and involuntary. He screams a blood curling scream, and he can see himself being pushed over the railing and falling onto the concrete below. He can feel the wind rushing past him, and his body breaking and splattering on the ground. People standing around his broken body, eyes wide with shock as his blood seeped from his shattered skull.

His fear was irrational, and he can't even think of a good reason that caused him to fear heights. Ever since he'd been young though, he remembered looking over the edge of his bunk bed and crying himself to sleep at night. He remembered his dad coming into his room, telling him to shut up and grow up. When he'd explain to him about how his bed was too high, his dad would make him lean over the edge. He'd make him lean all the way off the side of the bed and hold him by his legs.

The memory made him scream again, even as Morgan grabbed a hold of him. Just then, Hotch and Rossi came running through the door that led to the stairs. They lowered their guns at the sight of Morgan holding him down on the roof.

"The unsub jumped off the side, and he tired to take Reid with him," Morgan explained as Hotch approached cautiously. Rossi hung back, looking on quietly. "I need your help, Hotch," Morgan said again, and together both men lifted Reid to his feet. The younger man wouldn't walk, so they had to drag him away from the edge. Morgan pushed his head forward just in time to save Reid from throwing up on himself. Hotch rested on hand on his bony back, looking over at Morgan grimly. Reid just kept making small noises in the back of his throat, his body going slack with exhaustion as his muscles relaxed.

The wind blew slightly and Reid shivered, his sweat covered body cooling in the brisk air. Morgan removed his jacket without thinking and wrapped it around Reid's shoulders tightly. "Take it easy, kid."

"Don't push me," Reid said weakly, his legs finally giving out from under him. Hotch and Morgan held on tighter, balancing him between them. Rossi held the door open that led back into the stairwell and they half dragged, half carried Reid back down to the ground floor.

Spencer made no sound, even as they carefully helped him into the passenger seat of Hotch's SUV. Morgan shut the door and looked at him Hotch, "Take care of him, please." Hotch nodded mutely and went around to get in the driver side. Reid sat completely still, his head resting against the headrest, his eyes barely open. The only movement he made was a twitch when the car turned over, and it troubled Hotch.

"Looking down, I just always see myself falling," Reid suddenly said, "And when I was younger, I had a bunk bed that I couldn't sleep in because I was afraid of going near the end to get off. I was afraid I would fall, and no one would catch me. My mother was too ill to help me down some days, so I slept on the floor."

Hotch swallowed thickly as he turned out of the parking lot, "You don't need to worry about not having anyone to catch you, you'll always have us now."


End file.
